the annotated fourteen threadless needles no. 5

Over Near the Dictionaries no. 2 is exactly that, a variation on a theme. This 

poem also partially defines why neologisms are used throughout the book. 

The initials written on hands in the first poem, are now enshrined on something 

more permanent, the Oxford English Dictionary. The words missing from the 

dictionary are being added, but they are not defined in the poem, that work is 

left to the reader should she or he choose to consider it worthwhile. 

Windowsilliness is when one looks out a window from a great height, getting 

the feeling that one could jump and fly (an idea explored further in the poem 

A Man and a Window). 

Seductionitis, easy to define, is both the uncontrollable need to be seduced and 

the uncontrollable desire to seduce. 

PerpetualNixon is a state where authority is always at its worst, everything is Nixon. 

Pernicousuptopia is a turn on the debilitating medical condition pernicious anemia. 

It is perhaps unrestrained cynicism that allows one to perceive a pernicious intent to 

those who might promote visions of utopia but it's almost always the case that utopianism 

is accompanied by a lack of tolerance for the merely pragmatic. 

As for the middle stanza of the poem, for those who grew up in the 1960s in the US, 

it was if the entire decade were focussed on the moon landing, on achieving that goal. 

Once reached, however, we quickly grew bored with the whole affair. In some respects, 

there has not been a national goal since. 1969 was the pinnacle and everything since has 

been perpetualNixon. Parallels can be drawn to the relationships explored in this collection. 

There is one high point: "We met," and a thousand letdowns. 

Over Near the Dictionaries no. 2

We wrote our initials in the OED
on page 1969 in honor of the
year, SNH on the left, VJP on
the right. We added some words
we knew to be missing. I added
windowsilliness,* and you,
seductionitis.* 

Armstrong and Aldrin were snorkeling
in a sea of tranquility. I walked you home.

You wanted there to be new words with
many layers of meaning, lasagnawords*
you called them—perpetualNixon,*
idiotbliss.* You told me, 'I think I will
love you until you are the oldest old
man in perniciousutopia.'* 

'Is that like forever?' I asked. 

'No,' your eyes said, 'Sorry. No.'

in this one I am (ten self portraits)

In this one I am mistaken for someone else. 

In this one I am apparently lost in the Algebra.

In this one I am playing a secret agent. 

In this one I am rooting for whichever team is in the lead. 

In this one I am I am particularly hard to find. 

In this one I am not really feeling it. 

In this one I am smiling. 

In this one I am sure she was in the middle of saying something. 

In this one I am going to forgive them. 

In this one I am thinking it's going to be different this time. 

the annotated fourteen threadless needles no. 4

The poem, Storm Warning was written as something of an improvisation on 

the "Barking up the wrong tree," theme. I'd first used that phrase in combination 

with the philosopher Laozi's, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single 

step." I'd modified it or mashed it up to read, "The journey of a thousand miles 

sometimes starts with you barking up the wrong tree." Life, love is replete with 

instances of false starts. In Storm Warning, I'd mashed up Bob Dylan's "You don't 

need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows," with "barking up the wrong 

tree." I marvel at how difficult it can be to connect with another person and how a 

simple "Hi," can turn into something of a quick rebuke. 

My friend who lives in Scotland gave me this title and it seems especially apropos 

in this place in the collection, just shortly after the clouds disappeared in the previous poem.

Storm Warning

'Hi,' I said. It was
a gray day and we'd
listened
to an inanely overlong,
decadently sober
lecture on who the
hell remembers what. 

You said, 'You know, you
don't need a weatherman
to know when you're
barking up the wrong tree.' 

the annotated fourteen threadless needles no. 3

Think of Clouds as a transition from the point at which young people meet 

to the point at which they might be comfortable enough to be invited into 

each other's homes. The purpose of this poem was to foreshadow the nature 

of relationships. Even from the very beginning of their time together, "sitting 

there / hoping we'd never get separated / and then we did," comes the realization 

that any relationship that does not end in disappointment, ends instead, in death, 

or at least in the ginger ale being spilled, a metaphor for something once contained 

but now out of control, making a mess, attracting ants. 

There is a subtle connection between the spilling of the drink and the two young 

people being separated, unfortunate happenings in which one might think that the

 "clouds (i. e. storm clouds) would be rolling in." Instead, in perhaps an ironic 

turn of phrase, "all of the clouds disappeared." It is improbable that young love 

will last forever, improbable that anything will. There are always clouds on the 

horizon, which is why in this poem, they disappear. 

Hope is a burdensome fantasy. 

The stanza structure - eight lines, four lines, two lines, implies the waning nature of 

everything after the first two words: "We met." Meeting is the point of perfection. 

Everything else tries to recapture that moment.

Clouds

Looking out your kitchen window,
we played charades with the clouds.
You saw a cat-cloud and I saw a
wish-cloud and you gave me my
first kiss. Not the way I imagined it,
it was practically perfect except
for untangling your bracelet when it
got caught in my sweater. I was 

sitting there thinking your mom
might catch us and I was sitting there
hoping we'd never get separated,
and then we did.

I spilled a glass of ginger ale and
all of the clouds disappeared. 

the annotated fourteen threadless needles no. 2

The first main section of the book is titled 1969, and this, ostensibly, is when 

the poems in this part take place in the first year of high school, perhaps.

Over Near the Dictionaries, the title of this poem is a phrase taken from 

James Joyce's novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: Cranly was 

sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at the frontispiece, 

lay before him on the wooden rest. 

Most of the poems in this collection are slight and this one is no exception, 

a single scene, a single sentiment, a single young man whose space is invaded 

by a young woman. This poem introduces the first of the neologisms that 

appear here and there throughout the book: hermitplace. The neologisms, 

wordplay, is their fore- if you will -play. 

It's not an accident that the first poem (aside from the introduction) starts 

with the words, "We met." No accident that it is in a library, no accident 

that they're working on an English project. The reference section of a library 

is an excellent place to hide. No one who has anything better to do, reads the 

dictionary. The reference section is also an excellent place to observe what is 

going on around you. The poetry of observation has always been more of an 

interest than the poetry of action. Or, at least, if there is action in a poem, it 

should be a small action, such as writing someone's initials on your hand. 

These are the thoughts and actions of the young, the naive.

Diogenes wrote, "Blushing is the color of virtue." In the poem, the poet blushes. 

Is he virtuous? Time will tell and the span of time these poems cover, seventy 

or so years, will offer a number of chances for the reader to decide. 

Over Near the Dictionaries

We met in the library. You
were working on a project for
Mr. L., our first-year English
teacher. I was sitting over near
the dictionaries.

You sat next to me in my
hermitplace,* asked my favorite
word and I blushed, such silliness,
thinking you'd seen me writing
your initials on my hand. 

the annotated fourteen threadless needles no. 1

The initial poem in the collection, Always Read the Label Before You Read 
the Poems, is a direct reference to medicine and medication warnings printed
on prescription bottles and in advertisements. It was the phrase, ". . . if any of
these / common side effects / persist or become / bothersome," that first caught
my attention. Especially the words, "become bothersome." Some of the side
effects of medications are deadly, and in the face of that, "become bothersome,"
was such a wonderful understatement that it had to be used in a poem. Somehow.

There is also the exploration of the idea in this poem of how readers experience
poems and the assertion that poems can, "cause side effects," but that many people
don't experience them. This is a bit of a play on words in that most people do not
read poems and the best way to avoid the side effect is not to take the medication /
read the poem in the first place. Placed here at the opening to the collection, it
serves as something of a disclaimer of what is contained within. The reader cannot
say she or he has not been warned. The poet is taking responsibility in the same
manner that a corporation often does: through the infinitely well-crafted legal
protections of the warning label.

As for the side effects themselves, they are paired into short rhymed phrases.
The first side effect in each pairing is typical of what one might find on a drug
label, "anxiety." The second side effect is offbeat. It's not likely that a person
would feel, "increased piety," as a result of taking a medication although one
might as a result of reading a well-written poem. The same is true of all the
other pairs. "Decreased desire," is one of the great sadnesses of the antibiotic
era. "Jumping from the frying pan into the fire," is how many see their daily
choices.

The last rhymed pairing serves as a transition from the drug / poetry side effect
diptychs to the Sisyphus metaphor in the last stanza. 

In this closing, the reader, who is doing all the work of interpretation, is invited
to imagine that the reading of the poetry is not only going to be difficult (as difficult
as "pushing a giant poem up a hill") but that the effort will be futile, "only to have it
roll / to the bottom / again." 

It's also worth noting, perhaps, that the opening of the poem invites the reader to
"check with your poet," as one would check with his or her doctor. The invitation
to communicate with the poet is a sincere offer that the reader think of the poems
as a two-way communication. The poems can be adjusted to fit the need. Nothing
is fixed, as in, nothing is permanent, interpretation of the poem stands over a literal
reading. And also, nothing is fixed, as in, with all chronic conditions, such as writing
poetry, nothing is fixed. 

Always Read The Label Before You Read The Poems

All poems cause side
effects, but many
people
do not experience
them at all. Check with
your
poet if any of these
common side effects
persist or become
bothersome:

— anxiety / increased piety
— decreased desire / jumping from the frying pan into the fire
— memory loss / hitting the sauce
— stomach pain / volunteering to work on a political campaign
— ringing in your ear / crying in your beer
— inability to sit still / feeling as if you are pushing a giant poem up a hill, 

only to have it roll
to the bottom
again.